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seems to cheer the passer-by,?But more than that, no matter where?We're laboring in wood and field,?We turn and see it in the air,?Our promise of a greater yield.?It whispers to us all day long?From dawn to dusk: "Be true, be strong;?Who falters now with plough or hoe?Gives comfort to his country's foe."
It seems to me I've never tried?To do so much about the place,?Nor been so slow to come inside,?But since I've got the Flag to face,?Each night when I come home to rest?I feel that I must look up there?And say: "Old Flag, I've done my best,?To-day I've tried to do my share."?And sometimes, just to catch the breeze,?I stop my work, and o'er the trees?Old Glory fairly shouts my way:?"You're shirking far too much to-day!"
The help have caught the spirit, too;?The hired man takes off his cap?Before the old red, white and blue,?Then to the horses says: "Giddap!"?And starting bravely to the field?He tells the milkmaid by the door:?"We're going to make these acres yield?More than they've ever done before."?She smiles to hear his gallant brag,?Then drops a curtsey to the Flag,?And in her eyes there seems to shine?A patriotism that is fine.
'We've raised a flagpole on the farm?And flung Old Glory to the sky,?We're far removed from war's alarm,?But courage here is running high.?We're doing things we never dreamed?We'd ever find the time to do;?Deeds that impossible once seemed?Each morning now we hurry through.?The Flag now waves above our toil?And sheds its glory on the soil,?And boy and man look up to it?As if to say: "I'll do my bit!"
The Mother on the Sidewalk
The mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by Is the mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky.?Men have fought to keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright, But that flag was born of woman and her sufferings day and night; 'Tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray For the brave and loyal mother of the boy that goes away.
There are days of grief before her, there are hours that she will weep, There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep; She has heard her country calling and has risen to the test, And has placed upon the altar of the nation's need, her best. And no man shall ever surfer in the turmoil of the fray The anguish of the mother of the boy who goes away.
You may boast men's deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great, But to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait, And I hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave Who has given the Flag a soldier--she's the bravest of the brave. And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white Is a lasting tribute holy to all mothers' love of right.
The Big Deeds
We are done with little thinking and we're done with little deeds, We are done with petty conduct and we're done with narrow creeds; We have grown to men and women, and we've noble work to do, And to-day we are a people with a larger point of view. In a big way we must labor, if our Flag shall always fly. In a big way some must suffer, in a big way some must die.
There must be no little dreaming in the visions that we see, There must be no selfish planning in the joys that are to be; 'We have set our faces eastwards to the rising of the sun That shall light a better nation, and there's big work to be done. And the petty souls and narrow, seeking only selfish gain, Shall be vanquished by the toilers big enough to suffer pain.
It's a big task we have taken; 'tis for others we must fight. We must see our duty clearly in a white and shining light; We must quit our little circles where we've moved in little ways, And work, as men and women, for the bigger, better days. We must quit our selfish thinking and our narrow views and creeds. And as people, big and splendid, we must do the bigger deeds.
The Wrist Watch Man
He is marching dusty highways and he's riding bitter trails, His eyes are clear and shining and his muscles hard as nails. He is wearing Yankee khaki and a healthy coat of tan,?And the chap that we are backing is the Wrist Watch Man.
He's no parlor dude, a-prancing, he's no puny pacifist, And it's not for affectation there's a watch upon his wrist. He's a fine two-fisted scrapper, he is pure American,?And the backbone of the nation is the Wrist Watch Man.
He is marching with a rifle, he is digging in a trench, He is